Ties - A Tale of the Manhunter
by Ali2
Summary: The past returns to haunt those who have been involved in the lives of the men known as the Manhunter...
1. Ties, Part One

The author acknowledges that the names, concepts, and descriptions of the   
characters depicted here are owned by DC Comics, soon to be an AOL/Time/Warner   
company and that said owners retains complete rights to said character. These   
concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire   
to tell my own tales about a few of the many characters I've enjoyed over the   
years. This also acknowledges that original concepts presented here are the   
intellectual property of the author.   
  
  
That said, I submit the following for your approval...  
  
***************  
  
THEN...  
  
The hunter knew he was going to die.  
  
He had known it from the moment they arrived and descended into mountain. He   
knew it as he and his companions battled across the complex in a maddening dance   
of motion and blood.  
  
They had started out as a party of four and almost immediately lost one of their   
number to a sniper's bullet as he stepped from their plane. The hunter watched   
the gunsmith fall onto the ground and scrambled to his side. His other   
companions dove for cover as bullets continued to bite into the earth around   
them; each harsh whine and thump bringing them all a step closer to death.  
  
He knew he was going to die. He was ready for it, welcomed it...  
  
...but not now. Not yet. The hunter still had to avenge himself on these   
ghouls who snatched him from the peace he had found. He had to live a little   
while longer and end this nightmare once and for all.  
  
The hunter was still formulating his plan of attack when the guns suddenly fell   
silent. It was an action that heralded the arrival of the man they turned away,   
the man who didn't kill. The dark man who was considered a force of nature in   
his own urban jungle, but was only a liability in this, a "killing mission".   
Despite their refusal, the dark man had managed to follow them to this secret   
place where they would fight this final battle. The dark man had proved that   
his methods were as effective as their own and asked to help.  
  
The dark man had his own score to settle, he was there to avenge the death of a   
friend, and was going to proceed with or without their aid.  
  
The hunter considered the dark man's request, a quick decision was made and they   
were four once again as they descended into the den of their common foe.  
  
The hunter had allowed his mentor to lead the way into the enemy's stronghold;   
it seemed the best plan given his mentor's experience and time there. He   
followed behind his mentor with the dark man at his back and bringing up the   
rear was the woman. The hunter was tempted to think of her as "his" woman after   
all they had shared and been through together; but it wasn't something he'd give   
into, it would only be an illusion.  
  
A pleasant illusion, but an illusion nonetheless.   
  
A lie like the rest of his second life had been.  
  
The hunter was tired of the lies, the bloodshed and the violence. He wanted to   
rest. He wanted peace. He wanted it to be over.  
  
The hunter was ready to die.  
  
They had met resistance from the moment they breached the main plaza. Each   
struck in his or her fashion and cleared the field of most of their opponents in   
seconds.   
  
For a moment the battle was joined by the hunter's replacement, an enforcer who   
lacked the principles the hunter held dear. The enforcer was also the man who   
had killed the dark man's friend and defeated the dark man in an earlier battle   
half a world away. The enforcer tried to stop the hunter's assault, but the   
dark man stepped in to clear the way and avenge his friend's death. Oddly   
enough, the enforcer turned out to be his friend and the man who died half a   
world away was a substitute meant to cover the enforcer's defection to the side   
of the hunter's enemies.  
  
The mentor fought incredible odds and provided a distraction as the hunter and   
the woman raced for the ladder that would take them to the access hatch above   
their common enemy's inner sanctum.  
  
The hunter and the woman paused long enough to make certain of the final phase   
of their plans. There were dozens of things they could have said. Time enough   
for some last gesture of what they may have felt. The woman's mask slipped   
slightly as she repeated his instructions. She protested for just a moment, she   
was ready to go into the final battle with him and if need be, die with him.  
  
He wouldn't allow that, they both knew that this was one battle he had to face   
alone.  
  
He never looked at her as they stood above the access hatch. He simply reminded   
her of her mission and that he was depending on her to carry it out, regardless   
of what happened to him.  
  
On some level he knew this was the last time they'd be together, his last chance   
to walk away and take her with him. Instead he steeled himself, and emptied his   
mind of anything other than carrying out his part of the mission.  
  
This was his chance to finally end this thing once and for all.   
  
This was his chance to regain peace once more.  
  
It was time for him to reclaim everything that made his life special.  
  
As he dropped through the hatch, he knew this time would be the last time, the   
last fight, his final hunt.  
  
Everything happened quickly then. The confrontation with the old man who had   
perverted his life and stolen his peace was fast and brutal. No quarter was   
given as he fought the old man and formidable power of the old man's partners.   
He managed to kill three in rapid succession, before the old man consolidated   
the combined power of his four remaining associates into a deadly bolt that   
would've killed lesser men.  
  
The hunter fell without a sound; smoke rising from the fresh burns that been   
seared into his flesh with radioactive fire.  
  
The old man should have been the victor at that moment. He was certain of his   
success, but the old man had made three simple but fatal mistakes.  
  
The first, he presumed the hunter was dead.  
  
The hunter should've died at that moment, but his built in advantage, his   
enhanced "healing factor", saved him from that fate for a little while longer.  
  
The old man's second mistake was less obvious:  
  
He turned his back on the hunter.  
  
Even with the excruciating pain that tore through his body, the hunter managed   
to find the strength to rise and stand. While the old man was absorbed in   
monitoring the progress of the battle his soldiers fought against the hunter's   
allies, he never noticed the hunter's movements; he had dismissed any further   
interference from that quarter. The old man still had the hunter's allies to   
deal with, and was certain that in a few more moments his forces would be   
victorious.  
  
The hunter had been forgotten which would prove to be the old man's final and   
most fatal mistake.  
  
The hunter was still able to move, and therefore was still dangerous.  
  
A sharp intake of breath came from the old man as he realized that the hunter's   
allies had gained the upper hand. At first, it seemed as if defeat were   
certain. Formidable as the hunter's allies were, sheer numbers would eventually   
wear them down. The old man nearly laughed out loud as he saw the mentor fall,   
grazed by a bullet fired by one of the old man's soldiers. It was only a matter   
of time, the old man reasoned, until the other invaders fell.  
  
That was when the sharp staccato whine of a machine gun cut through the old   
man's defenders with unerring accuracy. They fell quickly, with each shot   
ringing true, each hit a fatal one. The old man was at a loss for only a moment   
as a lone figure stepped into view high above the battleground. It was the one   
man no one expected to see in this fight, the gunsmith.  
  
The gunsmith hadn't been seriously wounded, but the hunter decided that one of   
his people should held in reserve and able to come to their aid unnoticed. A   
simple nerve pinch provided an effective enough ruse, keeping the gunsmith safe   
in case his talents were needed.  
  
In an odd way, the gunsmith turned the tide of more than one struggle when he   
saved the hunter's allies.  
  
The old man was furious, ranting, and half-crazed; he was consumed with   
finishing off the last resistance to the plans he and his associates had made to   
control the world. The old man still had power enough to destroy the hunter's   
allies. He would use it to detonate their plane once they were safely away from   
his stronghold.  
  
As he headed for the control chamber, the old man remained oblivious to the   
approach of the hunter at his back. The old man never realized the only man with   
a prayer of stopping him was far from dead.  
  
But that wouldn't last for long. The radiation had already killed the hunter,   
but he couldn't quit...  
  
He still had a job to do.  
  
He couldn't die yet...  
  
The hunter reached for one of his last weapons, the dagger that he wore on his   
right ankle and called the old man's name with an agonizing ragged breath that   
was barely above a whisper. It was enough for the old man turn towards the   
noise. The old man's face registered shock as he realized he faced the hunter,   
and that moment's surprise proved to be his undoing. The handle of the heavy   
dagger the hunter had thrown smashed into the old man's face, knocking loose the   
helmet that the old man used as a conduit to focus the mental might of his   
associates.  
  
The hunter managed to find a hidden reserve of strength that carried him to the   
helmet before the old man recovered. Without a moment's hesitation, the hunter   
pulled the helmet on and fought a battle of wills with the minds linked to his   
own.  
  
The hunter has survived death twice now, once through the science of his   
enemies, the second because of the genetic enhancements they gave him. He tried   
to laugh at the irony of that thought as the mental battle raged on, but all   
that came out was this horrible sharp, phlegm like cough that told him death   
wouldn't wait much longer.  
  
The hunter felt his control increase, the other minds had stopped fighting him.   
For the less than a heartbeat, the hunter wondered if they had given up or were   
waiting to see if he'd die first. It didn't matter, the hunter shrugged off the   
last doubt and said a silent goodbye to his allies who were safely away from   
this place and issued a command that would overload the reactors and wipe this   
evil place from the face of this world.  
  
The hunt was over, he had tracked his quarry, run it to ground, and made the   
kill...  
  
Paul Kirk smiled grimly through cracked and bloodied lips and waited for death   
to come.  
  
As the explosions began to rip through the complex, he thought he had heard the   
old man's associates in the back of mind laughing.  
  
It didn't matter, he had won and he was going to the peace he had earned.  
  
And that's when the world suddenly caught fire and exploded before him...  
  
That's when he realized why the Council was laughing...  
  
And what that laughter meant...  
  
For him...  
  
And his friends...  
  
And he realized, suddenly, that he was going to die too soon after all...  
  
******************************  
  
TIES: A TALE OF THE MANHUNTER  
  
Part One: A Quiet Moment  
  
Written by Ali  
  
******************************  
  
NOW...  
  
ZURICH  
  
Christine St. Clair stared at the city from her balcony. She had recently   
returned home after finding the last Manhunter clone in Gotham. This last one   
had been the hardest to kill, he was as good as Paul and understood psychology   
enough to do something the others didn't attempt; he wore Paul's costume and   
weapons. Christine, Asano Nitobe, Paul's mentor in the martial arts and the   
undisputed master of Ninjitsu; and Kobe Mbeya, a gunsmith whom Paul called an   
artist in his craft; had crisscrossed the globe searching for the remnants of   
the Council's enforcement branch, a cadre of killers cloned from Paul Kirk's   
cells.  
  
Each clone they encountered was killed as quickly and painlessly as possible;   
each one wore the face of a man they cared for in their individual ways and that   
brought a certain mercy to their mission. It wasn't always an easy or merciful   
kill; the clones discovered all too quickly that they were being hunted and took   
steps to protect themselves.  
  
But this last one had been the hardest; he was the most ruthless of the bunch   
and as clever as Paul himself.  
  
That wasn't it really. Christine knew why this clone had been so hard to kill.  
  
He looked just like Paul when she last saw him; it was almost like he never   
died. She froze when she saw him. Christine was overwhelmed by memories,   
feelings she thought she had put to rest, but found still hurt as keenly as they   
did when he died.  
  
So much she wished she had said to Paul had come back in that instant.  
  
And that hesitation was what the clone had counted on. He even smiled like he   
was happy to see her before he raised a perfect replica of Paul's 1916 Mauser   
and shot her in the chest at point blank range.  
  
Christine counted herself lucky that "Paul" hadn't shot her in the head, the   
only part of her body that wasn't protected by Kobe's reinforced kevlar armor.   
The shots still made enough of an impact to knock the wind out of her and lay   
her out flat on her back.  
  
Christine was still trying to clear her head when she realized that "Paul" was   
standing over her. This time, he was aiming at her head and from this range he   
wouldn't miss.  
  
That was when the air around the clone seemed to come alive with a barrage of   
sharp black throwing stars. Christine counted her blessings once more, Asano   
had kept his head and attacked "Paul" before he could get off his shot.  
  
"Paul" fired blindly at Asano and dove through the window of the seedy hotel   
room he had rented. Christine and Asano went after the clone and he led them on   
a chase that soon gained the attention of the Gotham police force.  
  
The police and one other.  
  
Christine wasn't focused. Her shots were often wide and "Paul" seemed to evade   
them with ease. Asano was affected as well. Paul was like a son to him and   
though he was able to keep the clone from killing them, he couldn't seem to   
bring the man down.  
  
The fight was lasting too long and becoming too public.   
  
The whole thing had gone sour to them; this man had managed to look enough like   
Paul that they were unconsciously holding back. The chase seemed to last for   
hours as the hunted and the hunters leapt across the wide chasms of stone and   
steel. Buildings shot by with dizzying speed as Christine and Asano closed in.   
"Paul's" advantage was starting to fade. He started to get desperate.  
  
The clone eventually ran out of hiding places. Slowly but surely, Christine and   
Asano had managed to force the clone out towards open lower ground where cover   
was harder to come by. The clone made his way toward the Vincefinkel Memorial   
Bridge, in a last bid for escape.  
  
It was rush hour, the bridge would be filled with commuters, filled with   
thousands of potential hostages.  
  
Christine's own desperation kicked in. She was a former agent of Interpol, she   
had seen more than her fair share of hostage situations. If the clone managed   
to take even one person hostage, they'd lose him. Given the circumstances, she   
made a choice in order to cut off that possibility.  
  
She fired several rounds at the cars on the bridge.  
  
Christine's shots had the desired effect, commuters scrambled from their   
vehicles and rushed for the safety of the toll islands.  
  
"Paul" changed tactics once more and began a running gun battle. The clone laid   
down enough covering fire to find shelter among the abandoned cars. Christine   
and Asano fanned out, searching quickly and urgently; they knew the end of this   
hunt was near.  
  
That was when Christine felt a loop slip over her head. She managed get her   
wrists into the loop before she could be choked or hung, but she was effectively   
caught. A strong tug pulled her up towards the base of one of the bridge   
towers. The clone had found higher ground and gained his hostage.  
  
Asano hesitated. "Paul" had a replica of the Manhunter's Bundi dagger pointed   
at her throat and the Mauser in his other hand. The clone smiled confidently,   
he knew he had won. He knew Asano was as helpless on the ground as Christine   
was at the point of his blade.  
  
And then a huge bat-shaped shadow passed over "Paul's" face, distracting him.   
  
Christine moved quickly, without a thought, and kicked the clone's arm, causing   
him to drop the dagger as he struggled to keep his balance. Asano had begun to   
move at the same time, somersaulting to the roof of a car and using that as a   
springboard to carry him to the tower's base. Asano hit the clone hard,   
throwing his weight into a fierce kick that sent the clone tumbling off of the   
tower. Asano had managed to grab a bridge cable and used his momentum to swing   
himself back to safety.  
  
They watched "Paul" fall the entire one hundred fifty feet to the concrete   
foundation below. "Paul" died instantly.  
  
Asano and Christine were still looking down at the dead man when the Batman   
joined them at the edge of the bridge.   
  
Gotham's Dark Knight was not a killer. He didn't subscribe to killing nor did   
he condone it as a way to defeat an enemy. Despite the fact that he stood with   
Christine and Asano all those years ago when they raided the Council's   
sanctuary, and knew about Manhunter's clones; this was something he felt   
could've been handled without killing the clone. His anger was obvious, but   
when Kobe showed up in the chopper to pick them up, the Batman didn't stop them.  
  
It was over at long last. Christine knew Paul's spirit would rest easier now,   
the clones had been eradicated. Christine had done what she could to give Paul   
back his individuality and dignity.  
  
Christine returned home once more, she had other matters to attend to now that   
Paul had been avenged.  
  
Christine sipped her tea and looked out over the gardens surrounding her home.   
She enjoyed the peacefulness she felt here, she hadn't realized how tired she   
had grown of globehopping. Christine had retired from Interpol some time ago, a   
wealthy woman thanks to her father. He had left his entire estate and   
considerable fortune to Christine when he died. Christine's life was free from   
want, her father had made sure of that.  
  
Her father...  
  
Christine was almost overcome with emotion as she thought about him and   
everything that happened between them in the last few hours of his life.  
  
Christine still had mixed feelings about her father, he was one of the Council's   
most powerful covert agents and, in his position as one of the leading bankers   
in Zurich, a major contributor to their efforts.   
  
Yet, he wanted more power than his reputation and money could bring him. It was   
this kind of power that the Council offered. A power that seemed to be the   
fulfillment of his wildest dreams. He believed their lies enough that he was   
willing to sacrifice his daughter in order to attain his goals.   
  
Christine's father was in a deadly game where the stakes were far greater than   
he dreamed. Failure was unacceptable and the price of failure was one that was   
swift and final. He was shot exiting the Orient Express after he failed to   
retrieve a tape from Christine that contained evidence about the Council and   
their movements.  
  
Christine recalled sadly that her father wasn't the only person that betrayed   
her trust during her adventures with Paul Kirk. Damon Nostrand was her superior   
in Interpol, and another covert Council plant. Damon kept the Council privy to   
the movements of the various international police agencies across the globe, and   
helped them avoid detection by those same agencies. Damon headed the Second   
Line, and was the next person in line to sit on the Council itself.  
  
Damon was killed in an explosion when he attempted to run down Paul and   
Christine in one of Marrakesh's alleyways.  
  
Both men coveted power regardless of cost and both were killed as a result of   
their ambition.  
  
Christine's whole life seemed to dissolve into series of lies, betrayal and   
death because of her own ambition and dedication to seeing justice done. She   
had spent the last ten years of her life putting an end to the final remnants of   
the Council. She was ready to have a normal life at last.  
  
Christine pulled her robe tighter and enjoyed the new day. She was ready to   
enjoy every moment she felt she had lost over the last decade.  
  
She had a lot of lost time to make up.  
  
A scented breeze played with Christine's fiery tresses, blowing hair over her   
eyes. She brushed it away and walked back into her bedroom to find a comb or   
clip to keep it in place. Christine had begun to rummage through one of the   
dresser drawers when she heard the rustle of movement in the hallway.  
  
Christine's years of training and experience kicked in automatically. She   
tensed, cocking her head slightly in the direction of the noise, and let her   
senses go to work. She listened to the progress of the noise for a few moments   
more and smiled, she knew what was about to happen.  
  
The door to her bedroom burst open, and a small figure bounded in and leaped up   
at Christine. Christine had managed to grab the figure, but not before the   
impact pushed her off her feet and threw them both on the bed. Christine   
struggled against her attacker for a few moments before she began to submit to   
the frenzied movements of her opponent. She could barely see past the reddish   
auburn hair that bobbed in and out of her face. She knew that her opponent   
would not stop the attack until she surrendered.  
  
Instead, Christine counter-attacked, moving her fingers swiftly up and down the   
rib cage of her attacker. Her efforts were rewarded with squeals of laughter.   
Christine's attacker rolled away and landed on the floor with a thud. Christine   
jumped off the bed and pinned her attacker to the floor. She continued to   
tickle her attacker until the only sound in the room was the laughter they both   
shared. Eventually, Christine rolled off her opponent and rested with her back   
against her bed.  
  
"Had enough?" Christine asked as she tousled her opponent's hair.  
  
"You cheated!" the small figure gasped between giggles. Christine's opponent   
was a young boy. He was solidly built, with intense eyes and a bright smile.   
Despite his age, the boy's face had strong features that hinted at the handsome   
man he would grow to become.  
  
"I improvised," Christine replied wagging her finger. "Now what has you rushing   
into my room this early in the day, young man?"  
  
"You said we'd go to the street fair today!" The boy seemed to be at a loss   
over Christine's apparent lack of memory. His concern was obvious as he looked   
up at her.  
  
"I believe that was after you had washed up, dressed and cleaned your room,"   
Christine answered with mock seriousness. "You haven't even changed out of your   
pajamas yet, so I know everything else MUST be done for you to remind me about   
the fair today."  
  
"Oh, mother," the boy cooed in resignation, "can't I do all of that later? If I   
have to clean my room up, that could take FOREVER! I'll miss the fair!"  
  
"Then you'll miss the fair," Christine answered her seriousness real this time.   
"You know the rules, if you can't follow them, you pay a penalty. Do you   
understand?"  
  
The boy cast his eyes at the floor, "Yes ma'am."  
  
The somber mood was enough to soften Christine's stern expression. She cupped   
her son's face in her hands and turned it up towards her own.   
  
"Now don't look like that," Christine said with a slight smile. "I'm not angry   
with you, I just want you to understand that rules are important."  
  
Christine's smile grew as she looked at her son. It was hard to believe that   
she finally had time to be the kind of mother she wanted to be. The only   
drawback to her mission was that she had to spend time away from him. All of   
that was over now, she had a new mission ahead of her and it was one she was   
looking forward to.  
  
"So tell me, who's my best guy?"  
  
"ME!" the boy shouted enthusiastically.  
  
"That's right," Christine said. "Now hurry up and get your chores done and we   
can be at the fair before lunch."  
  
"All right, mom." The boy said bounding to his feet. His smile was so warm that   
it melted Christine's heart to see it.  
  
He had reached the door when Christine said, "Paul?"   
  
"Yes, mom?" The boy turned with a smile still on face, but it faded a bit as he   
saw the odd expression on his mother's face.  
  
"I just wanted to say I love you."  
  
Paul ran back into the room and hugged his mother's waist. "'Love you too."  
  
As he ran out of the room, Christine realized how lucky she was. After leading   
such a dangerous life, she had managed to survive and live to enjoy the rewards   
of her efforts. Paul was an unexpected gift, conceived in a quiet moment a few   
days before the raid on the Council's sanctuary. Paul had been gone for a full   
month before Christine had her first bout of morning sickness and found out that   
she was pregnant with Paul's child. Asano and Kobe stayed with her and when   
little Paul was born, they found a nanny that was also trained in several forms   
of martial arts. Until their enemies had been dealt with, there wasn't any way   
that they were going to bring the child with them nor could they leave him   
unprotected.  
  
Christine was happy to take on that particular duty now.  
  
She was still lingering over that thought when she felt a sharp pain in the side   
of her neck. She had just enough time to find the tiny dart that had struck   
before her fingers went numb and she started to sink to the floor.   
  
She could faintly make out the form of a powerfully built man covered from head   
to toe in a gaudy colored suit of armor. The golden helmet with its' almost   
lizard like appearance, was one she hadn't forgotten.  
  
Christine thought he had died in the explosion that destroyed the Council's   
sanctuary.  
  
As she slipped into unconsciousness, Christine entertained the possibility that   
this was someone new. Someone who wanted to make a name for himself by stealing   
the reputation of another, but when he removed his helmet, there was no room for   
doubt. The tousled blonde hair, the cruel expression and the hatred that   
gleamed in his eyes were unmistakable even after all these years.  
  
He was the Council's replacement for Paul Kirk and a former friend of the   
Batman.  
  
His name was Dan Kingdom, but the Council called him the Enforcer.  
  
Christine fought to focus, she fought to stay awake, but the darkness was   
overtaking her reserves. The Enforcer saw the look of recognition in   
Christine's eyes and smiled.  
  
"You're looking well Ms. St. Clair. I'm glad to find you and your son in such   
good health and spirits. It's a shame your last memories won't be happy ones."  
  
Christine barely registered the fact that the Enforcer had Paul slung over his   
shoulder before he struck her in the temple and finished the job his drugged   
dart had started.  
  
*****************************************************  
  
To be continued...  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Ties, Part Two

The author acknowledges that the names, concepts, and descriptions of the characters depicted here are owned by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company and that said owners retains complete rights to said character. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to tell my own tales about a few of the many characters I've enjoyed over the years. This also acknowledges that original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author.

That said, I submit the following for your approval...

THEN...

He hated this whole situation, but had found a certain measure of peace in this lonely place.

For years he had battled his own inner demons with varying degrees of success. When he first donned the costume and name of the Manhunter he was unaware of the history and responsibility that came with it, the secrets hidden behind the noble words of legend. He only wanted justice, to fight the good fight and win.

At least that's what he believed in the beginning.

That was before Mark Shaw lost control over his life.

When Mark was called to join the clan of the Manhunters, those who fought beneath the proud standard of the golden lion, he never realized the subtle, corrupting call of power that softly subverted his sense of justice. The call twisted him, changed him and made the life he led a mockery of all the principles he once held dear.

Mark soon craved greater power, which made him plot against other heroes. First he struck as the Manhunter's pawn to destroy the Green Lantern Corps and attacked their agent on Earth. Later, affected by the loss of his station as Earth's Manhunter, Mark posed as the dashing Privateer while committing crimes under the colorful identity of the Star-Tsar. Mark's plans nearly succeeded, but he was discovered and eventually captured by his intended targets, the Justice League of America.

For a time Mark languished in a prison cell, but eventually found himself drafted into the government's Suicide Squad; a program that offered an immediate release to any costumed criminal who participated in it. Mark didn't know why the Squad needed him until he found out what his mission was.

The Manhunters were on a rampage and attempting to stop the next step in humanity's evolution.

Until he faced his former masters, Mark believed that he was the only human operative used by the Manhunters. Mark had learned; some years ago, that the Manhunters were a star spanning android police force created by the self-proclaimed Guardians of the Universe. Though they were effective initially, the Manhunters eventually lost their focus and coveted the power the Guardians held. The Guardians' creation had ruthlessly turned against their creators, but were found wanting. The Manhunters were stopped, stripped of their powers and their ranks scattered across the cosmos.

However the Manhunters were not so easily dismissed. The androids were unable to forgive their former masters. They were relentless in their desire for revenge, and eventually the Manhunters regrouped and began a shadow war against the Guardians.

Their vendetta against the Guardians included strikes at their current agents, the Green Lantern Corps, but the extent of the Manhunters interest in Earth was greater than Mark imagined. He soon discovered that he was one among many human beings who were unsuspecting agents of the Manhunters. Most of them were unaware that they were pawns in a greater game, or the consequences their actions were bringing about.

Mark was the only one who knew what kinds of evil these creatures were capable of and he used his knowledge of these monsters to finally end their schemes.

It was a chance for Mark to take up the good fight once more. And he did so with a vengeance that won him his freedom and crushed a vital Manhunter base on Earth.

Once he left prison, Mark took up the mantle of the Manhunter again. From hero to criminal to bounty hunter to hero once more, Mark began to believe in the ideals he had once discarded. He stood tall against the worst life could throw at him and survived. Mark thought his long struggle was over, he had finally seemed to triumph over the demons that had plagued him at last.

That's when Mark inherited a new kind of inner demon, and it was called the Wild Huntsman.

The Huntsman was some great mistake made by creation, a so-called spirit that was the embodiment of a savage hunter that lived for the sport and the kill. A mad demon that should've never seen the light of day who preyed on the innocent and guilty without bias or pity.

All that mattered was the sport, the kill and the blood.

Chase Lawler, the last man to bear the name Manhunter, lived with this ancient demon inside him. To be free of it, one had to die, and then the spirit would move on and take up new residence in the victor. Death as the only escape was a prospect not necessarily appealing to any of the previous hosts of the Huntsman, each one chose to live with the curse despite the naked savagery of the spirit creature.

Lawler was one of the luckier hosts however; he had Mark Shaw as an unwitting savior. Mark, delusional and disguised as his own archnemesis Dumas, fought Lawler and managed to induce a severe cardiac arrest. The arrest so severe that Lawler was pronounced dead on the scene. The Huntsman remained true to his pattern and moved his essence to the victorious Shaw freeing Lawler from the burden.

It was the most selfless thing Mark had done...

And he regretted it every waking moment since he did it...

Mark had been a reluctant savior, his mind in a fog, convinced he really was Dumas had led to his being the unwilling host of an unwanted entity.

He had been a pawn once again...

Mark knew the legend of the Huntsman, the unspeakable brutality that could surface and take the lives of the innocent as easily as the guilty. When the Huntsman manifested on the physical plane, it was sometimes without discretion. Knowing that anything perceived as a threat could unleash the monster within at any moment, Mark abandoned his life to protect others and became a hermit.

Mark returned to his Manhunter roots once again by moving into an abandoned Manhunter temple high in the Himalayas and making it his home. Mark hoped to contain the Huntsman's threat here. He knew his eventual death would be the end of the Huntsman for a time.

Perhaps for all time, since it was unlikely that anyone would ever find this place and his remains once he died.

As he settled into a routine of exercise and meditation, Mark considered the irony of his situation. His life had, in some ways, began here. It was here that Mark faced Dumas in their final battle, here where Mark was first inducted into the order of the Manhunters...

...and here where he was going to die.

Mark wondered if Sylvia were still out there waiting for him. Was she expecting him to walk into the precinct and sweep her up in his arms as he did the day he walked away from the role of the Manhunter?

God knows, he wanted to do just that. If he were able to get out of this mess, he'd go back home, take her by the hand and walk her out of the damn police department and to the nearest church he could find and marry her.

That fantasy made some of the long lonely days bearable.

But there were far too many more days where Mark was haunted the memory of what he walked away from, the life left behind, the opportunities he didn't take. The sheer weight of his loneliness threatened to crush Mark's spirit and destroy his mind.

Once more, he was a prisoner. Once more he found himself being used by forces beyond his control. Once again he was a tool to be used, a pawn to be played in some larger game.

And though there was nothing he could think of to change the situation, Mark was finally fed up with it.

Little Manhunter

Mark's head snapped up from his meditation. He thought he had heard a voice, but it was more like a tickling in the back of his mind. A sensation he was familiar with, one he thought had quit this place when he refused to continue as the Manhunter.

Mark cleared his mind and concentrated.

"N'Lasa?" Mark spoke the name as well as thought it. N'Lasa was once a Manhunter, one of the first in fact to be chosen by the Guardians and one of the few that weren't androids. N'Lasa was also the first of the Manhunters to turn against the Guardians. N'Lasa led the androids in their ill fated rebellion and he paid the price for his betrayal when his followers turned against him and left him in the hands of the Guardians.

The Guardians arrived at a swift judgement for N'Lasa's betrayal and sent him out to hunt down the Grandmaster, new leader of the Manhunters. N'Lasa's mission was cut short when he was captured by his prey. His physical body was trapped in some odd sort of spatial flux when he was caught and N'Lasa found his spirit bound to this place in the high mountains, this temple where the Grandmaster made his home. He spent centuries as their captive and the Manhunters adopted his likeness as their symbol and standard as some sort of morbid joke.

N'Lasa resembled humans in most respects, but his head looked as if it belonged on the body of a lion more than a man. Though he was trapped in the service of his former followers, N'Lasa managed to weaken their hold on some of their chosen agents over the years. Mark was one of the people he had managed to help and in a way, Mark was the person who had freed N'Lasa when he helped bring down the Manhunters of this world.

N'Lasa aided Mark in his final battle against Dumas and pronounced Mark the last, true Manhunter when the battle was won. When Mark refused to take up the mantle again, he assumed N'Lasa left this plane of existence for good.

Obviously, Mark was wrong. N'Lasa slowly materialized in the open air, floating in front of Mark.

I have never been far from this place, Little Manhunter, N'Lasa "said". Never far from you.

"I've been here for nearly three years," Mark replied. "I called out to you when I arrived, but got no answer."

You were not ready, N'Lasa "answered".

"Not ready for what?" Mark asked.

You were not ready to face the beast within. You were not ready to battle it in its own element.

"What are you saying N'Lasa?" There was hope in Mark's voice for the first time in a long time.

You are the key to your own freedom, Little Manhunter, N'Lasa "answered". I could not help you until you were prepared to finally help yourself. The Huntsman is powerful on any plane of existence, but weakest in the plane where he waits until it is time for him to manifest in your world. Your actions have brought him to his lowest point; it is possible for you defeat it there. I can serve as a bridge to that world if you are willing to take the risk.

"No offense N'Lasa," Mark said, "but I'd like to spend the rest of my life very far away from here if that's possible."

None taken, Little Manhunter, N'Lasa's great muzzle almost seemed to smile. You should be warned of the consequences if you fail.

Mark rose from his sitting position and stood before N'Lasa's floating form. "I'd assume the usual stuff, brain death or my soul is trapped in his world for eternity or my physical body dies when my spirit self dies."

Not exactly, Little Manhunter. If you lose, your essence will cease to exist and the Huntsman will have complete control of your physical body. N'Lasa leaned a little lower, inclining his head towards Mark. He will be able to reshape your form into his own and free to ravage this world unchecked. If you fail, you will give the Huntsman what he desires the most, his freedom.

"Guess I'd better win then," Mark said grimly. "Won't you be able to cut him off from my this plane if I die there?"

I am just a bridge to his world, Little Manhunter, N'Lasa answered. I will be unable to aid you in any way other than that. Until a spirit returns to your body, I'm unable to do much of anything. I can try to stop the Huntsman before he can reshape your body, but I won't know who is within until the battle's done and a victor claims your physical body.

Mark thought about the risk, the consequences if he lost and then of Sylvia Kandry and the life they had begun to build together. When he looked up at N'Lasa again there was no doubt in his eyes, no hesitation or fear on his face.

"I'm ready when you are, N'Lasa. Let's get this over with."

Done.

As the word tickled Mark's mind he saw the room of the temple fall away and he stood on a vast plain covered with grass. In the distance, barely visible through the mists that clung to the ground, he could see the burned out remains of what appeared to be an ancient castle. Closer to him was a devastated village. Bleached bones were strewn everywhere; dried blood was spattered across everything as if it had rained from the bloated purple-gray clouds that hung like dusky grapes in the sky. A faint stench, not unlike a slaughterhouse, hung in the air and burned in Mark's nose. The plain was eerily silent. There wasn't a single living thing to be seen anywhere, not even an insect.

If there were ever a place abandoned by the creator, this was it.

"So the puppet has come to my lair."

Mark saw a movement in the mists. A hulking shape slowly took form and loped towards him.

"What do you want, puppet? You do not belong here." The voice sounded like someone was sliding two slabs of granite against one another. The result was a hollow, primal noise that one would expect a demon from the pit to make.

Mark stood his ground as the creature emerged. It was powerfully built, with chalk white skin. A scarlet mane of sorts spilled out from behind a bony black ridge that ran from below the thing's chin to the top of its head. It glared hatefully through blood red eyes and had a hideous ring of razor sharp ebony teeth, but it was smaller than Mark thought it would be.

"Still large enough to destroy you, puppet." With a wave of a bleached arm another figure dove from the mists. Mark recognized it immediately. The golden armor, the white fringed, bisected helmet, the fleur-de-lis insignia; there was no doubt of who it was that stood before him.

Dumas, the assassin.

Mark barely had time to prepare as the master killer attacked. Mark parried the blades with his bare, unprotected arms. Mark rolled backwards and threw the armored man from him. He came up on one knee and waited for the inevitable second rush.

Dumas didn't disappoint him. He raced towards Mark with an almost unnatural speed, did a fast cartwheel and was airborne with a pose that threatened a harsh kick in Mark's near future.

That's when Mark realized something important. Dumas was dead. He couldn't be here; they couldn't be having this battle.

"You're trying to scare me," Mark said calmly. Dumas kept coming at Mark's head, flew through him as Mark were made of air and then dissolved into mist.

The roar of anger that came from the Huntsman reverberated across the plain. "I can destroy you, puppet. I WILL destroy you."

"Don't think so," Mark said confidently. "You need me alive. ALL of me, my body and spirit."

"Fool!" the Huntsman hissed. "I don't need your pitiful spirit for anything! I only need your body."

"Wrong!" Mark stood now. An understanding he hadn't had until now was in his eyes. "I'm your anchor to the real world. Kill me here and there's no real way for you to be free there. Like N'Lasa was my bridge to your world, I'm your bridge to mine. Without me there's no possession, just an empty shell."

"So you say, puppet!" the Huntsman snarled. "Are you willing to die to prove your point?"

"Are you willing to kill me to prove yours should be the question." Mark turned and started walk away. "I don't think you will."

The Huntsman howled another hideous roar, "YOU WILL NOT IGNORE ME PUPPET!!! FACE ME!!!"

Mark heard the Huntsman rush across the ground, closing the gap between them. He waited until the bellows like hiss of the Huntsman's breathing was close enough for him to act.

Even with the advance warning of his impending foe, Mark cut it close. His backflip carried him cleanly over the monster's shoulders, the kick he shot out smashed neatly against the base of the monster's neck. If he had pulled this maneuver on a normal man, Mark would've easily crippled or killed him. On the Huntsman however, the blow only served to stun the behemoth and knock him off balance. His own massive paw struck Mark in midair, spinning him head over heels, until he smashed into the unyielding ground.

Mark was seeing stars as he sat up, but counted himself lucky that he could see anything at all. The Huntsman was all too real regardless of Mark's state of mind when he faced him.

If only he had a weapon...

"Ouch!" Mark's finger ran over something sharp. He managed to focus on his hand and saw something half buried in the dirt. He pulled at the object using his thumb and forefinger and it came loose easily.

"A throwing star?" Mark stared dumbly at the object for a moment before he realized there was another one at his feet. A few yards from the second star, was something he never thought to see again, much less use. Unless that fall scrambled his brains more than he knew, the golden rod laying carelessly against a nearby rock was a Manhunter's baton.

Now he just needed to get to it.

Mark picked up the second throwing star and began to move for the baton. His trip was short-lived as the huge shadow of the Huntsman fell upon him. As another ear-splitting roar hit him, Mark calmly spun and threw one of the stars as hard as he could. He was rewarded with a different type of howl; one of pain as the star lodged itself in the Huntsman's right eye. Mark rolled forward, came up on his knee and fired off the second star like an infielder trying to throw out a runner at the plate. The second star found a home in the Huntsman's throat.

Mark was certain the gurgling noise emanating from the Huntsman was intended to be another howl. Whether it was of pain or anger or a healthy combination of the two didn't matter to Mark, he put on a burst of speed and covered the last few feet in two great strides. Mark barely had time to activate the baton before he felt the ground tremble with the Huntsman's heavy tread.

"Die," The Huntsman rasped. His voice was distorted by the thick black bile that oozed from the wound in his throat. The Huntsman hadn't bothered to remove the throwing star. Mark figured that the Huntsman wanted him dead too much to be bothered with small details.

"Someday I will," Mark said quietly as he aimed the baton in the Huntsman's direction. "But it won't be today."

The baton kicked out a high whine and a flash of energy that knocked the Huntsman flat on his back. Mark raced over to the spirit creature while it was dazed and placed a foot over the throwing star. He lightly applied pressure until he felt the star sink in enough to get a reaction. The Huntsman flailed around slightly and was about to move for Mark's foot when he realized Mark's baton was aimed squarely between his eyes.

"Before you say I won't, let me assure you I will." Mark's voice was cold; his eyes betrayed no emotion whatsoever. "I want my life back and if ending yours is what I have to do to get it back, then that's what I'll do."

The Huntsman sneered. "What makes you think--"

Mark's foot pressed down on the star causing the Huntsman to choke as the blades bit deeper. "Shut up. If you're not going to let me out of this devil's bargain you have nothing valuable to say."

"Ha!" the Huntsman snarled. "Then I have won after all! Your choices are few, puppet; you can return to your current existence or I will kill you."

"Or I can kill you," Mark said easing his foot down on the throwing star again. "Be certain though, if I'm forced to do so it won't be quickly to be sure. I'll spend as long as it takes to torture you as I've been tortured over my life. I'll take so long to kill you, that both of us will have forgotten the exact reason why when I end your life."

"You wouldn't dare y--AAAARGH!" The Huntsman screamed as Mark fired a bolt from the baton. He had adjusted his aim for the tip of the Huntsman's thumb on his left hand. The shot vaporized it in less than a heartbeat. The flash of the discharge was hot enough to cauterize the wound.

"You've got a lot of body parts, big guy," Mark said evenly, "and I've got a lot of time on my hands."

The Huntsman's eyes narrowed as he stared up at Mark. The monster growled and spat black blood in Mark's face. "Bastard," the Huntsman growled with venom in his voice.

Mark adjusted the baton slightly and blew off the knuckle joint of the same thumb. As the Huntsman began to cry out, Mark added a little more pressure to the throwing star, driving it deeper still and cutting the shout into a gasp of surprise.

"Wrong answer." The cold fury in Mark's eyes the purposeful resolution set on his face told the Huntsman everything he needed to know. The puppet had cut his strings, he would see this through to the end whatever that end may be.

For the Huntsman, the prospect of being extinguished by something he generally perceived as prey was a usually distant, and sometimes, disturbing impossibility.

Until now.

"I release you from the bonding," the Huntsman said with all the restrained fury of an incoming storm. "Should we meet again though--"

"--I'll kick your ass from here to Brooklyn," Shaw finished. "If you come after me, I'll kill you in ways even you can't imagine and when I die, I'll spend eternity with you and do it all over again. Leave well enough alone for your own good."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I'm making you a promise, that's all." Mark stepped off the Huntsman's throat and walked away. He turned his back, confident that he wouldn't be attacked, but prepared for the eventuality. Mark thought that would be it; that he would find himself back in the temple as quickly as he arrived in the spirit plane.

But since he was still here, there was something he obviously hadn't taken care of.

And he still had a question or two about who left the throwing stars and the baton where he could find them.

A hint of movement, a flicker of motion made Mark whirl and he found himself facing a grim looking presence. The newcomer was cloaked in a verdant emerald cloak the features of his pale face hidden in the shadowed folds of the hood he wore. He didn't speak nor did he make any movement to suggest his intent, he simply stood his ground and waited.

Mark was hit with a feeling of familiarity, as if he had met this foreboding apparition before. He smiled to himself as he made a guess that he could only assume was right.

"I thought N'Lasa couldn't help me on this plane of existence," Mark said without hesitation.

"He didn't," the stranger answered. " I'm not from N'Lasa. I'm an observer, someone curious to see how you'd do in this particular trial."

"An observer?" Mark's voice had a tone bordering between surprise and cynicism.

"I'm more of an interested party where you're concerned," the stranger replied. "A man determined to do good yet having that good corrupted by a power beyond understanding. It has been the path you've chosen to redemption that has been of interest to me."

"Don't take this the wrong way, friend," Mark said, "but why the hell would you be so concerned with my life? Do we know each other or something?"

"We've met," the stranger answered. "As for my interest, your life reminds me of my own, though I didn't realize it until it was far too late."

"Does this 'interest' of yours extend to my fight here?" Mark seemed to chase a thought for a moment and then asked, "Do I have you to thank for the weapons and my victory?"

"It was important that you defeated the monster and won your own freedom," the cloaked stranger answered. "I couldn't hand it to you, neither could N'Lasa; you had to do it for yourself."

The stranger stared intently at Mark for a moment or two and then looked over at the Huntsman who had risen shakily to his feet, still clutching the remains of his mutilated claw. "Would you have killed him?"

"I'm not a killer by habit," Mark answered. "The Huntsman understands brutality so that's what I gave him. If he could've been reasoned with any other way I'd have followed that route."

"Not quite an answer," the stranger replied.

"Sure it is," Mark countered. "You weigh your options and do what you have to do without judgment or regret."

The stranger nodded somberly as if he were remembering something or someone before he said, "I have regrets."

"But if we're so much alike, you were trying to do the right thing," Mark said. "You probably didn't compromise yourself."

"We all make some sort of compromise," the stranger countered.

"But we have the ability to choose our paths," Mark stated. "We can grow beyond who we were to become who we will be. In the end, what we did in the past, is just that, in the past. There's always tomorrow and another opportunity to make a difference with our lives."

"You've given this a lot of thought," the stranger said.

"I've had a lot of time to think about it," Mark replied. He noticed the surrounding area was starting to grow hazy and less distinct.

"I guess we're done?" Mark asked as the stranger began to become less defined.

"In a way," the stranger said. "In other ways, you're just beginning, Mark."

Mark had to squint to keep the cloaked stranger's form in focus, "You never established exactly how we knew each other."

"I know," the stranger said.

"Not quite an answer," Mark said.

Everything began to fade away into a growing green haze around Mark.

"If you need some kind of answer," the stranger said from somewhere in the haze, "you can think of me as a lantern helping to light the way."

Mark wasn't able to reply, but he remembered seeing a familiar smile before he was swallowed up by a flash of green light and found himself back in the temple once more.

TIES: A TALE OF THE MANHUNTER

CHAPTER 2: DEBTS

Written by Ali

NOW...

OSAKA, JAPAN

As he dispatched his latest opponent with a savage blow at the base of his neck, Asano Nitobe realized he was getting too old for this kind of life.

The trouble was that Asano knew this was coming when he read of Christine's abduction. Unlike Kobe who had been a whirl of activity when he heard the news, Asano simply sipped his tea and said to his eager comrade, "This is our life, Kobe, we never walk away from it. Though the past may be dead, some of our enemies aren't."

The kick that flew at his head missed, but just barely. Asano wasn't a young man by any stretch of the imagination, but he was more dangerous than most men a fraction of his age. He had trained from childhood in the dark art of the ninja, becoming one of the youngest to be considered a ninjitsu master. His skills had saved him dozens of times from dangers that a younger man with less experience would have succumbed to despite his vitality.

Yet, despite his skill, Asano was slowly being worn down by his opponents' superior numbers. He hopped, rising slightly above the younger man, as he sailed past and delivered a harsh elbow blow to the chest. When the assassin hit the ground and slid into Asano's rock garden, Asano knew he would not rise again.

He muttered a small prayer for the man he just killed and one for himself just as he caught the edge of a dagger on his left shoulder. Asano turned his mind from the pain as he had been taught years ago and fought on. The cut was slight but enough to remind him that unless a miracle was on the way, he was going to have to retreat or die.

Fourteen men lay dead strewn across his ancestral home. Another five were unable to move and were no longer a threat. The ten who remained were not showing doubt or hesitation as they fought on. Asano found himself respecting their determination as he smashed another man's nose in and drove the cartilage into his brain. As the others swarmed forward, Asano saw a new group of black clothed assassins rushing through his gates and over his walls.

Retreat became Asano's only option now. Luckily, he had accomplished his goal and cleared a way back into his house. The assassins had cut that path off when they began their attack, and tried to box the older man in before overwhelming him. It was almost as if they expected him to make a run for it or something. Asano nearly laughed at the surprise they had shown when he had asked if they wanted something to eat or drink before he killed them all.

Now he'd have to do what was expected of him in order to do what he had to do to stay alive.

As he dove through the door of his home, Asano found himself in the den. The walls were covered with weapons that he had used over the years, some he inherited and some that were tools he picked up as they were needed. Each one was kept in prime condition more out of respect than preparation for unexpected intruders, but, given his current situation, Asano was grateful for his diligence to tradition.

Asano's first pursuer crashed through the delicate opaque screen and found himself on the receiving end of a slender three-pronged spear that smashed cleanly through his chest. Asano used the spear to push the body back out into the garden, knocking over two men who had the misfortune of bringing up the rear. One howled briefly as the spear cleaved through his eye before punching into his skull.

As another window exploded behind him, Asano managed to spin and toss something in the general direction of the noise. In contrast to the shattering glass of the pane, the objects tinkled with an almost bell like quality. From a distance, they looked like a child's set of jacks, but the assassins who leapt in and landed on them fell to the floor within seconds. Asano smiled as the poisoned foot spikes bought him a few more precious seconds to load a pair of crossbows and arm himself with a small assortment of lethal weapons.

Unfortunately, Asano's new opponents were not prepared to lose any more people if they could afford it. A steel cylinder was thrown through the window. It bounced off of the back of one of the fallen soldiers, skipped once or twice across the floor, and rolled to a stop a few feet from where Asano was standing.

The cylinder looked like some sort of explosive device.

No matter how fast he moved, Asano knew he wouldn't be fast enough to get clear of it.

"Hell of a way to die," Asano muttered under his breath.

"DOWN!"

A blur of crimson and azure came from the front of the house and inserted itself neatly between Asano and the tube, batting it away from them. For a moment, Asano thought the impossible had happened.

"Paul?"

That was all anyone had a chance to say before the cylinder popped open on the ends and started to spit an oddly colored gas into the room. Even as that started, Asano and his colorful rescuer were already in motion. The older man found himself being carried across the den, through the dining room and down the long hall towards the living room. As the pair made it to the front room, Asano had time to note the men he had seen laid out along the way. The only difference between these men and the majority of the ones he faced was that these men were breathing.

They were halfway to the door as a gasmasked group of men stormed the back of the house. It didn't take the invaders long to realize that their quarry had gotten out before the gas got to him.

"He can't have gotten far," one of them roared. "Fan out and bring him down! If he fights back, screw the orders and kill him!"

Asano raised an eyebrow as he heard the comment filter down the hallway. Whoever was after him didn't want him dead after all.

Asano's rescuer stopped in the foyer at the front door and set him down. No longer in motion, Asano had a chance to get a good look at the person who saved him. The figure was dressed in a red and blue uniform that vaguely looked like a cross between a pulp hero and a ninja. A blue hood concealed the person's head except for the face, which was hidden behind a robotic looking, stainless steel mask. There was a blue scarf of sorts around his neck and the vest he wore looked like a brightly colored leather jacket with flared sleeves that cuffed into sleek blue leather gloves with red disks on the backs. The pants were styled along the lines of jodhpurs, or the old aviator style worn in the early days of flying. In a blue gloved right hand, the figure held a golden rod, in the left dangled a set of car keys.

"It's out front, the blue SUV," the figure said, dropping the keys in Asano's hand. The voice was metallic sounding and hollow, making Asano think he'd truly run into an escapee from the latest children's cartoon.

"Who are you?" Asano asked. From the sound of his voice, it was the first time since the attack that he found himself off-balance. Kobe wasn't due here for several hours unless he too had been attacked. Did he send someone ahead of him?

"We don't have time for this!" the figure hissed. "Get outside and start the car, I'll be on your tail. Asano's rescuer started as Asano drew a katana and in one smooth motion, had the blade pointed in the small of his back.

"Don't think me ungrateful," Asano said evenly, "but I'm afraid I must insist on an answer now."

"Manhunter's one of the names I go by," the figure answered.

"I knew Manhunter, he's been dead for some time," Asano replied.

"Not Kirk," Manhunter answered, "the name's Shaw, Mark Shaw. Can we get back to the mission at hand?"

Asano made a quick decision, nodded and turned for the door.

Manhunter ran back into the living room, making sure he made enough noise to draw the entire group's attention. The men rushed down the hallway in his direction, but the Manhunter stood his ground, aimed his baton and said, "Polarize."

The room appeared to darken for the man behind the mask but it was actually the lenses of the mask. Manhunter let the soldiers get a little closer before issuing his next command.

"Flash-Bang."

The hall seemed to explode in a flash of brilliant white light. Most of the men stumbled into one another, blinded by the glare that was emitted by the baton. A few of the hardier souls to the rear of the group attempted to climb over the tangle of limbs that now lay before them. Though the glare from the baton had been diffused some by the men at the front of the line, it was still bright enough that those who weren't blinded had a hell of a lot of spots in their eyes.

Manhunter seemed to expect that.

"Sound baffles."

The moans and groans of the invaders suddenly disappeared. It was as if Manhunter had suddenly gone deaf. The mask had provided a secure and complete suppression of all outside sound.

Even though he couldn't hear his next command, Manhunter spoke it anyway, knowing the mask and baton would respond regardless.

"Screamers."

The howl that filled the hallway was deafening. The few men who stood fell to the floor clutching their ears and yowling in pain as their eardrums seemed to explode. Manhunter reached into his vest and snagged a couple of concussion bombs. He tossed them over his shoulder as he sprinted for the door. The floor vibrated beneath his feet, the only indication that the bombs did their job and knocked any stragglers off their feet long enough for him to get out the house.

"Restore default settings."

With the mask's sound and sight returned to normal, the Manhunter made his exit.

Asano was waiting in the SUV with the engine running. He moved to the passenger's seat as Manhunter opened the driver's side.

"Why are you here?" Asano asked as Manhunter pulled out of the driveway.

"That should be obvious," Manhunter replied as he removed his mask. Mark Shaw's face was grim as he concentrated on staying on the road.

"You know what I mean," Asano said flatly.

"I was tying up some business for my father here when I heard about Christine St. Clair from a ladyfriend of mine," Mark said. "I knew that she and Paul Kirk worked together to bring down the Council some years back. I figured there was a possibility that you and Kobe Mbeya might be in some kind of danger as well. Since I was already in Japan, I decided to check in on you and offer my help if I could."

"You thought I needed to be rescued?" Asano asked with a tone of voice that gave the impression he had been insulted without actually sounding insulted.

Mark smiled and shook his head, "Not from what I saw back there. All I did was keep those other guys occupied. You'd have handled them easily whether I was there or not."

Asano returned the smile and said, "No I wouldn't have, but that you respect your elders enough to say so speaks volumes about you."

"I bow to your superior knowledge on that one, sensei," Mark said taking a sharp turn.

"Now you're overdoing it," Asano noted with a slight smile as he leaned back in the seat.

"Right," Mark replied as he slipped on a headset that rested on a coffee cup holder.

"Oracle, you on-line?" Mark fished around in the sleeve of his tunic and pulled loose a scrap of cloth as he waited.

Half a world away, in Gotham City, an attractive redhead smiled as Mark's voice that filtered through her headset. She set her barbell back its rack and settled into her wheelchair. Barbara Gordon, known these days as Oracle, turned her chair in the direction of a computer center that made most government systems look like somebody's ten-year old home personal computer.

Oracle was a clearinghouse of information available to the majority of the superhero community. Barbara's alter ego was often able to not only gather info but occasionally find operatives to take on certain cases that were generally missed by heroes used to covering certain territories. Her primary operative was the Black Canary and the two women had a loose and unofficial partnership.

"So you managed to survive your first assignment I see," Barbara said with the smile still on her face. Mark Shaw was one of those lost souls Barbara liked to help. Unlike some of the masked men and women she dealt with, she knew what Mark had gone through over the years. The simple fact he was still trying to do the right thing impressed her. It seemed that a lot of reformed supercriminals tended to fall back into their old habits, so she was happy to do what she could to keep the ones who were willing out of trouble.

"Just barely," Mark said with half a smile. "I think I interrupted a sleepover, there were a bunch of guys running around his house in black fatigues."

"Sorry I didn't send you over with popcorn," Barbara quipped. "How's Mister Nitobe doing?"

"He was okay long before I got there. All I did was clean up work," Mark answered under Asano's withering gaze. Mark ignored it and placed the cloth he carried on something that looked like a tiny copier mounted in front of the gearshift. "I'm scanning something and sending it over your Comsat uplink. I need you to identify it if you can."

Barbara stared at her monitor as the image was beamed over a secure link, bounced off a satellite and sent directly to her hard drive. A few seconds later, the image came up on Barbara's monitor. "Got it," she said. "Where'd it come from?"

"Tore it off one of the soldiers that hit the sensei's home," Mark answered. "All of them seemed to have it on their uniforms."

"Did you run it past your guest?" Barbara asked as her fingers whisked across the keyboard. Barbara was running the golden emblem through the data systems of several hundred law enforcement agencies at a time. If there was a reference linked to the international underworld or terrorists, she'd turn up the answer quickly.

"Good idea, didn't have time before," Mark removed the cloth and handed it to Asano.

"You recognize this, sensei?"

The rapid manner in which Asano's face paled and went ashen gave Mark the answer to his question. The emblem was a golden oval. An almost scarab like affair, with intricate designs. Mark was reminded of his own mask when he first saw it; the designs were similar.

"Hold the phone, Oracle," Mark said quickly, "I think my guest knows something about these guys."

"That's fine," Barbara answered. "My search engine's still running possibilities. Anything I can get will move this along quicker."

"Roger that," Mark said. He turned to Asano who appeared to have aged another decade in the last few moments.

"Sensei?"

"We thought he was dead," Asano said with a distant look in his eye.

"Who, sensei?" Mark fought to keep the frustration out of his voice. "I need a name."

"Kingdom," Asano said hoarsely. "Dan Kingdom, the Council's replacement for Paul Kirk as their enforcer."

"You copy that, Oracle?"

"I'm on it," Barbara responded as she added Asano's information to her mainframe's search parameters. "You bring your laptop, Manhunter?"

"Yep," Mark answered. "It's in the back of the cab though. Do you need me to boot it up?"

"No, I'll send an e-mail with this guy's detailed history though so keep it handy," Barbara replied as she reached for a pen. "I can give you the Reader's Digest version in a few minutes. Whatever I miss, Mister Nitobe or Batman can fill in the blanks."

"Batman?" Mark winced slightly. He still remembered his last meeting with the Dark Knight when he passed through Gotham on a case. They parted on decent terms, but at the same time Mark had been told, in no uncertain terms, to stay out of Gotham afterwards. "What's Batman got to do with this?"

"Kingdom was a friend of his," Barbara said casually. She was absorbed in the details scrolling across her monitor.

"I see where his trust issues come from with friends like that," Mark said with a sullen, sarcastic tone in his voice. Though it sounded a little like static, Mark was fairly certain he heard Oracle snicker.

"Do you want Batman in on this?" Barbara asked. She was one of the few people who had free access to the Batcomputer and the man who owned it. Barbara knew Bruce would probably want to be involved but this was Mark's call.

"No," Mark answered quietly. "I can handle this."

"Fair enough," Barbara said. "Then here's the short version, Dan Kingdom was a detective on the Gotham force about ten years ago. He and Batman met on a case about a year before that and Batman was so impressed with Dan that he consented to teach a martial arts course with him at the police academy."

"I take it Kingdom's not your run of the mill beat cop?"

"Not by a long shot, Manhunter," Barbara said cautiously. "He's got special forces training, his police training and has mastered some serious martial arts disciplines, enough to be a walking chain of fighting schools. Dan took out Batman in their first fight as enemies. This boy's serious business and not to be fooled with."

"Noted," Mark said grimly. "So how'd he get mixed up with the Council?"

"That's still a little vague," Oracle answered. "Seems Dan had a thing for power, money and was easily corrupted, but the Council offered him something else beyond that. Probably a chance to be the best merc in the business or extended life, or--"

"Whoa," Mark interrupted, "What do you mean by 'extended life'?"

"Just that," Barbara said reaching for a sheaf of papers that flowed out of her printer. "The Council's supposed to have found some way to retard the aging process, but it was still in the testing stages. Take a look at your passenger, how old do you think he is?"

Mark looked at Asano carefully. The smaller man was still studying the emblem and unaware of Mark's sudden scrutiny. Asano's hair was graying, but not a solid shade, more like coal shot with steel. His face was well lined with age, but the skin was still smooth. If there were any age spots anywhere, Mark was hard pressed to find them.

"I'd say fifty to fifty-five as a rough guess," Mark replied.

"Asano Nitobe was born in 1920," Barbara announced. "That makes him --"

"I get the picture," Mark said. "Think the Council's making a comeback?"

"There have been rumors," Barbara replied. "But this isn't their MO, they used clones of your predecessor to do their dirty work and those clones were trained by Nitobe. Did these guys look alike?"

"Nope. They were anything but," Mark answered. "Seemed like bargain basement mercs to me, half of them weren't armed. They were probably even in the two-for-one bin at 'Bad Guys R Us'. Guess he wasn't invited to the Council's ten year reunion party. But --" Mark's voice trailed off as he replayed the battle he just had.

"What is it?" Barbara asked as she prepared an attachment file with Dan Kingdom's information for the e-mail she was sending to Mark.

"They didn't want the sensei dead." Mark's eyes widened with the realization. They were trying to bring him down, but they had orders to bring him in alive."

"Then the St. Clair kidnapping could be related." Barbara started to type in new information on her computer. "I'm cross-referencing Kingdom's file with the St. Clair case and the file I have on Paul Kirk. I'll let you know what I dig up by the time you're airborne."

"Hopefully you'll have a destination in mind too," Mark said.

"You just handle the heroics, I'll do the heavy lifting," Barbara said with a smile. A sudden thought came to her and Barbara stiffened in her chair for a moment as concern swept across her face. "What about Mbeya?" Barbara asked. "He was en route to Japan to meet with Mister Nitobe."

"I've got that covered," Mark answered confidently.

"Then I'll talk to you when you're ready to travel," Barbara said. "Oracle out."

Mark allowed himself to relax as the SUV pulled into a private airfield and stopped at a hanger reserved for the Southern Cross Salvage Company.

Several long black luxury cars were parked outside. Asano tensed for a moment and reached for the scabbard that held his katana, but Mark placed a gloved hand on the older man's shoulder.

"Take it easy, sensei," Mark cautioned, "they're on our side."

As Mark stepped out of the SUV, the driver's door at the front of one of the larger cars opened and a huge Japanese man dressed in full chauffeur's livery stepped out. He silently strode to the rear of the car and opened the door. A slender, well-groomed Japanese man dressed in an immaculate Armani suit stepped onto the sun drenched tarmac of the airfield. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of stylish Ray-Ban sunglasses, and his expression gave no hint of emotion as he walked towards Mark Shaw. The two men stopped a few feet apart from one another and bowed from the waist.

"Shaw," the man said softly, "it is an honor to see you again." The speaker's less than enthusiastic tone would lead anyone listening to believe otherwise, but Mark had gotten to know this man fairly well, the two had forged bonds during darker days that held fast now.

"Ryu, I'm pleased to see you're well," Mark said in an equally flat tone. The two men rose from their bows and were beginning to walk over to the cars when Asano stormed out of the SUV, anger contorting his face.

"Shaw!" Asano yelled. "Don't you know who this man is?" Asano's eyes narrowed at Ryu. "A killer, a liar, a criminal, he's Yakuza!"

Ryu seemed unaffected as he bowed and said, "Sensei, this is indeed a great honor."

"What would one such as you know of honor, Oyabun?" Asano spat. "One such as you uses honor as a doormat to wipe the soil from his shoes." The small man whirled at Mark and said, "I was unaware that you consorted with criminals."

Ryu was indeed the leader, Oyabun, of the Dai-Ichi Doku Yazuka, one of the most powerful criminal organizations on the Pacific Rim. At his command, men lived or died, but Ryu and those who served under him, held fast to the belief that they were honorable warriors in the scheme of things. While several law enforcement agencies would say otherwise, the code of the Yazuka had bound them to Mark Shaw and he to them in a mutual debt of honor.

Ryu was as close to Mark as any brother, perhaps closer given their history.

"No disrespect, sensei," Mark said quietly, "but what were the members of the Council?"

"Misguided," Asano snapped, but after a few moments, his features softened. "I see your point, Shaw and apologize for the outburst." In a stiff bow, Asano returned the greeting, "Oyabun."

Mark started for the car again, "Is he here?"

Ryu nodded at his driver who opened the door of the car beside his.

"See for yourself, Shaw."

Kobe Mbeya stepped out of the car and his stern expression faded into a smile of recognition when he saw Asano.

"I guess they weren't lying after all, old man," Kobe said. His voice was rich and deep. His Kenyan accent was subdued but present. Combined with his good looks, height and coffee colored skin, Kobe was an impressive sight that caught your attention immediately. If he hadn't followed in his father's footsteps as a weaponsmith, there was no doubt that Mbeya wouldn't have graced a few magazine covers as a model.

Asano's focus was on Mbeya's bald head. "Good Lord, man! What happened to your hair?"

Kobe laughed, a resonating booming noise, and said, "This is fairly new, too much gray started to show up, so I got rid of it." Kobe cast a knowing glance in Asano's direction. "All of us don't age as well as you do, old man." He smiled as he ran a hand over his smooth pate. "I guess you don't approve."

"It will just take some getting used to," Asano said shaking his old friend's hand. "Glad to see you made it in one piece."

"Well your friends made that easy, they had me out of Nairobi in less than an hour after I called you." Kobe had an annoyed expression as he added, "I just wish you had told me they were coming when we talked, old man."

Asano's confusion was obvious. "I didn't send these people, Kobe."

Mark saw Kobe tense up and start to discreetly reach for his waist. "That was my fault, sensei," Mark said quietly. "I asked Ryu to send someone to make sure that Kobe got here without incident. It seemed safer to say that you, an old and trusted friend, had sent them as opposed to me as a stranger."

Kobe looked confused now, "But the men who came for me knew things that only Christine, Asano or Paul Kirk could have known. Things that would make it easy to identify anyone sent on their behalf."

Asano looked at Mark, "Your ladyfriend I assume?"

"Oracle's a resourceful woman, sensei," Mark answered with a smile. I knew saying they came from you wasn't going to be enough, so Oracle dug up enough information to make them believable. She was lucky enough to find some of Christine's early reports to Interpol before she and Paul went underground. It was imperative that we found you two before anything else happened and there was some..." Mark found himself searching for the right word for a moment, "...doubt about how Kobe would have reacted to Yakuza dropping by to take him for a ride."

Asano smiled, "A maneuver worthy of your namesake, young Manhunter."

"I beg your pardon?" It was Kobe's turn to be slightly confused.

"It would take to long to explain," Mark said. "Right now I need to get a line on Dan Kingdom."

"He's behind Christine and Paul's kidnapping?" Kobe asked.

"'Paul', sensei?" Mark replied. "Not--"

Asano shook his head, "Her son. Little Paul was a well-kept secret from most people. At the time he was born, we still had remnants of the Council to contend with."

"I see," Mark said. "Then Kingdom's got them both. That's going to make this a little trickier to pull off with two hostages to locate. I'd better put another call in to Oracle."

Mark turned to Ryu; "You'd better get them someplace safe. I'll feel better knowing they're out of harm's way while I track down Christine."

"You're joking aren't you?" Asano said.

"Sensei," Mark said with a sigh, "I've got enough to worry about without concerning myself over your safety."

"I realize I'm an old man, young Manhunter," Asano said politely, "but Christine was our comrade-in-arms, not yours. We've risked our lives for one another before and if we must do so again, you will not stand in the way."

"Ryu?" Mark said, looking for support.

"Despite the debts we owe one another, Shaw," Ryu said with much more reverence and emotion than Mark was used to, "if the sensei wishes to settle a debt of honor and search for his missing comrade, I won't stop him from doing so."

Asano regarded Ryu with a critical eye, "Thank you, Oyabun."

"Yeah," Mark added sarcastically, "thanks for the backup, Ryu."

"If our roles were reversed, Manhunter," Kobe said quietly, "if it were your friend or lover in danger, would you want to be 'safe' when there's a chance you can save them?"

"Okay, okay!" Mark said raising his hands in surrender. "You've made your points. Besides even if I stuck to my guns, you'd just slip away and strike out on your own."

"Then we're agreed?" Asano asked with his hand extended towards Mark.

Mark extended his own and shook Asano's in agreement.

"It would appear we're a party of three," Mark replied.

"And let the Enforcer beware," Kobe added clasping his hand over the others.

To be continued...


End file.
